


I Hear a Symphony

by RileyC



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: schmoop_bingo, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:57:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: Love song. Watson's trying to begin writing, Holmes is playing his violin. Inspired by a 1960s Motown hit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hear a Symphony

At first, Watson is annoyed.

"Holmes--" He finds himself inspired, on this cold, spring evening, to begin writing up their adventures on Dartmoor, rooting out all his old notes on the Baskerville case and sorting them out into chronological order, and Holmes chooses _that_ moment to begin scraping the bow of his violin across the strings of the Stradivarius in one of those formless, abstract concertos with significance only to Holmes.

"Doctor?" He looks over at Watson, a dreamy expression in those grey eyes. Ten years before, Watson would have suspected his friend was feeling the effects of that infamous seven percent solution, but it is many years since Holmes has given up that vice. With no case before him, however, what lays behind far-off, languid look?

"I'm trying to concentrate, Holmes."

"Ah. And this," Holmes draws the bow across the violin once more, "is interfering? Dear me." Getting up from his place by the fire, Holmes prepares to remove himself. "Do forgive me, dear fellow," he says, disappearing into his bedchamber.

Watson can still hear the violin, but faint now, and blending with the even more muffled sounds that drift in from Baker Street, the crackling of the fire, as he turns back to the work spread before him, thoughts drifting back to that fog-shrouded moor. For a moment he can almost hear the eerie baying of a spectral hound, far off in time and distance.

Picking up the diary he'd kept during the affair, he finds the reports he had written to Holmes tucked away between its pages. Leafing through them, he recalls the bitter moment of frustration he'd felt upon discovering Holmes had duped him - that _Holmes_ was that mysterious figure upon the moor that Watson had come looking for, inexorably drawn to find him.

Even now, nearly fifteen years later, that memory has the power to sting. His understanding of Holmes is so much greater now, serving to mute any remembered pain, yet regrets still linger. How might things have altered on so many occasions, he wonders - unbidden, the word _Reichenbach_ passes through his mind - if Holmes had trusted him more? It was never quite that simple, of course, he knows that now. Holmes had needed to learn to trust himself first, in all those ways that couldn't be placed on a slide and viewed through a microscope, or dissolved in a test tube solution, before he could trust in anyone else - even John Watson.

A difficult lesson for them both, but the most precious acquisitions did usually come at a dear price.

_As far as I could judge,_ Watson read from one his letters to Holmes, _the figure was that of a tall, thin man. He stood with his legs a little separated, his arms folded, his head bowed, as if he were brooding over that enormous wilderness of peat and granite before him. He might have been the very spirit of that terrible place..._

Amazing he hadn't immediately connected that figure with Holmes, Watson thinks, giving his head a rueful shake. Never mind that he'd believed Holmes was back in London, working on that blackmail case - a case Watson had known nothing of until the instant Holmes produced it as his reason for not accompanying them all to Dartmoor - he should have divined the truth somehow.

Had the problem been that he observed but failed to draw inferences, as Holmes so often stated, or more that he had been too quick to take Holmes at his word?

No matter now, of course, but Watson is pleased he can recollect all those feelings and reactions of so long ago. It will add dimension to the tale, a necessary element no matter how Holmes might scoff and deride it.

Pushing back from his desk, Watson stands, stretching stiffened muscles. This cold, damp spring has seeped into bones, accentuating the old aches in shoulder and leg. The fire warms him nicely, however, and the tea's still warm. As he pours a cup, he becomes aware of the music once more - and it is music now, although Watson cannot identify the composition. Perhaps it's one of Holmes's own works, he thinks, although there's a quality to this arrangement that sets it apart from the other pieces Holmes has created.

Though Watson possesses no technically trained ear with which to enhance his discernment, he has always found something … lacking, for his tastes, at any rate, in those original compositions of Holmes's. He cannot dispute their technical brilliance. But - and here he falters for a moment, searching for the most apt illustration - but, he continues, their collective effect is one he would liken to a mathematical equation worked out in musical notes. Astonishing and ingenious, but somewhat deficient in that emotional spark that would touch the spirit and warm the heart.

Holmes would most likely say that the accomplishment of auditory formulae was the entire purpose, as well as pointing out that Bach was renowned for his marriage of music with mathematical precision. Furthermore, Watson is well aware by now that his friend is far from the machine of pure reason he had depicted him to be in some of those early tales. It's only that … Watson has never _heard_ this side of Holmes in his music, until now.

It's wonderful, he thinks, Dartmoor and its phantom Hound far from his mind now.

Edging closer to the door of Holmes's room, he pushes the door open a bit more, wanting to hear more.

There's a rich warmth in these notes, a faint suggestion of a military tattoo for a space, then a brisk passage evocative of mystery and excitement, a trace of melodrama woven into lingering notes that slowly transform into a swell of poignant longing that finished on a passage of such tender romance that Watson felt a constriction in his throat and a burning in his eyes. He's never heard anything like it, and the only thing he can think is that it's as if he is listening to his friend's heart.

"Holmes," unable not to, he pushes the door all the way open, "that was…" words fail him once more, "beautiful."

If that falls inadequately upon his own ears, it brings a smile to Holmes's face. "Not too distracting, I hope?"

"Not at all. What is it?" Watson asks. "It _is_ your own composition?"

Holmes acknowledges that with a slight inclination of his head. "I call it…" Now he falls silent, the words on his tongue, but not easily spoken. "I call it _Sonata for John_," he says, scarcely above a whisper, as though the confession holds the power of life or death.

Watson smiles, shaking his head again, that constriction in his throat tighter for a moment. All the dangers Holmes has faced - that they've shared - and opening his heart is still the one thing that fills him with apprehension.

"I trust it is meant for private performances only?" Watson says, moving closer, sitting beside him on the bed.

"Most assuredly," Holmes says, giving him a look that says he appreciates Watson's restraint. "A most private concerto, indeed."

"With many, many encores, may I hope?" Watson asks, resting a hand on Holmes's knee.

Holmes gazes at Watson's hand. "I thought you had writing to do."

"The Hound has waited two hundred years for its tale to be told," Watson says, "a few more hours can hardly do it harm."

And if the music Holmes's long, thin fingers play upon his body is largely silent, its notes resonate deeply indeed.

the end

===============

"I Hear a Symphony"

by Brian Holland/Lamont Dozier/Edward Holland, Jr.

You've given me a true love  
and every day I thank you love  
For a feeling that's so new  
So inviting, so exciting

Whenever you're near  
I hear a symphony  
A tender melody  
Pulling me closer  
Closer to your arms

Then suddenly, I hear a symphony  
Ooh, your lips are touching mine  
A feeling so divine  
'Till I leave the past behind  
I'm lost in a world  
Made for you and me

Whenever you're near  
I hear a symphony  
Play sweet and tenderly  
Every time your lips meet mine now baby

Baby, baby  
You bring much joy within  
Don't let this feeling end  
Let it go on and on and on  
Now baby, baby  
Those tears that fill my eyes  
I cry not for myself  
But for those who never felt the joy we felt

Whenever you're near  
I hear a symphony  
Each time you speak to me  
I hear a tender rapsody of love now

Baby, baby  
As you stand holding me  
Whispering how much you care  
A thousand violins fill the air

Now baby, baby  
Don't let this moment end  
Keep standing close to me  
Ooh, so close to me, baby, baby  
Baby, baby  
I hear a symphony  
A tender melody


End file.
